Survival of the Luckiest
by Sunburned-Stickperson
Summary: He doesn't know who he is. But he has a friend to help him out in the poor district of Acre. Fate has a funny way of working itself out.
1. Chapter 1

When he opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was. He grunted and sat up, wincing at the pain in his stomach.

"You're awake?"

He turned to see a young man with short-cropped black hair standing in the doorway. The room was small and heavily shadowed, the last beams of sunlight streaming in through a window. He was laying on a simple mat, a thin blanket across his waist. There wasn't much in the room.

"You had me worried."

His eyes grew wide when the man stepped forward, more or less dragging his leg with him. It still worked slightly—it looked as if he could put his weight on it—but seemed like dead weight for the most part as his foot scraped the floor as he walked over. The man sat down with some difficulty, reaching out and touching his chest before finding his way down to the bandages.

"A-are you…"

The man looked at him, and Kadar inhaled sharply at the scarred-over eyes. They were sunken in and paler in comparison to the rest of his skin.

"Yes, I am blind."

He watched as the man undid the bandages and felt along the jagged, healing wound gently.

"It seems to be healing well."

Kadar squirmed at the fingers touching him. "I hope. So, uh, where am I?"

"You're in Acre. A friend of mine found you and brought you here. Said you were dressed like an assassin, so you'll be safer with me, here, in the poor district."

"What happened?"

"You were attacked in the Temple a ways from here."

"I meant…"

"Oh, to me?"

"Yes?" he said, giving him a hopeful look and feeling a little bit sheepish for asking. He didn't even know his name.

"Ah, torture," he smiled, and Kadar was surprised, "but I still get paid for various work, so I'm not dead yet."

"Oh…"

"So tell me, what's your name?"

He paused, watching the man place clean bandages on his wounds. His eyes were scarred and mangled, and he could envision the way the blade (or hot metal) pierced his skin and burned clean through. He looked so young. The question buzzed in the back of his mind, and he pursed his lips.

"I think… It's Kadar?"

"Kadar, a fine name. Do you have a last name? Don't strain yourself if you can't remember. You sustained heavy head trauma."

He thought about it, trying to recall his last name. He couldn't remember anything of his past, really, save for his name. He thought there was someone he needed to speak to, but he couldn't figure it out. His memory was fuzzy, and he wasn't, really, even sure that was his name. Better than nothing, he supposed.

"What's your name?"

"Zachariah Angel."

"An English name."

"Yes."

Unable to help himself, he lifted his hand slowly, hesitating as he debated touching the marred skin. He hadn't seen anything like it. Hell, he hadn't seen _anything_ he could remember. Finally, he gave in, watching as Zachariah tenses momentarily as he felt the scars over his eyes, running his thumb along the gnarled tissue. Zachariah sat there patiently, relaxing slowly, letting him touch them.

"You're pretty open with telling me about your scars. Someone I once knew wouldn't let me touch the finger he lost."

Wait—he had no idea where that came from. He didn't know anyone. He couldn't even remember his own personal name with clarity. He could hear the amusement in his caretaker's voice when he spoke.

"Is that so? Well, I came to the conclusion a long time ago, in my three years out of torture, that I could either accept it, or let it beat me."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't let it beat you."

"At least one of us is. Are you hungry?"

Kadar let his hand drop as his stomach answered for him. Zachariah laughed: it was a coarse, gravelly laugh, probably from the effects of the torture he had said he had gone through. He almost didn't catch the "one of us is," but he did, and his heart jolted. He hoped life wasn't too hard for the poor man. He'd have to protect him and help him. After all, he had given him a place to stay while he healed.

"I don't keep anything to be cooked in here—if my hands are reason to go by."

He looked at one of Zachariah's hands, gasping at the number of scars and burns over them. The blind man laughed again. Surely his reactions weren't so out of the ordinary. Or perhaps it was because they were so ordinary. Either way, at least he had the man laughing as he rose.

"Well, Kadar No-Last-Name, now you have a name, and I'm certain you have no memory of your past, why don't we go get you something to eat? Can you cook?"

"Uh… I dunno. I can learn, surely."

Zachariah nodded, adjusting his weight. "Good. Earn your keep while we figure out where you need to go. That is, of course, assuming you can walk."

"Ah! I think I can. May I borrow a hand?"

Zachariah turned around and, carefully, extended a hand. Kadar was impressed he was pointing straight at him. Carefully, Kadar took the hand and rose. It was a slow process, and he had to carefully tuck his legs beneath his body before he could rise, and he noticed many, many, scars on his own skin. He wondered if he had been attacked before he had been brought there. There were bandages on his stomach and on his arm and one of his legs. He winced once, eventually steady on his feet.

"Can I ask a favor?"

Kadar nodded slowly, then caught himself. "Uh, yeah."

"May I feel you? I haven't actually taken the time to get to know what you look like, touching simply to check that you weren't bleeding out."

Kadar blushed, ducking down slightly. "Uh… I guess?"

He watched as his new friend carefully reached out, feeling his way to his body, and ran his hands up his arms and over his chest slowly. He felt embarrassed as the man touched him—the poor man had been reduced to feeling since he couldn't see. He couldn't see anything. He trailed his fingers lightly over the muscles on his arms, and Kadar tensed when he felt his fingers move from his arms to his shoulders, then over to his chest, feeling slowly, taking in each scar until he reached the bandages. With a hum, he let his hands drop.

"You're certainly built to be an assassin."

"I-I, uh…"

"Come. Let's go."

Kadar, still blushing, trailed behind him timidly. They walked to the door, and Kadar caught a shirt that he had thrown with remarkable accuracy for a blind man. He took a stick by the door and opened it, feeling around briefly to grab a basket.

"Why don't you live with someone else?"

"I've got no one else."

"What about your friend that brought me here?"

"Away with King Richard, fighting. Our king, is off waging war against the Muslims."

Kadar stepped beside him on the side with his bad leg. They walked slowly as they made their way to the market, and he looked around, taking it all in, listening as Zachariah filled him in on the latest politics. He felt as if he should remember this place. The man knew his way around, to say the least, and he walked with assurance through the dark and grimy streets. There were bodies waiting to be buried, ridden with plague and stored in burnt out buildings for burial. The aura of the entire city seemed defeated, the citizens walking around with their heads lowered, many beggars at the street corners. Even the noise seemed to have a muted quality to it, even though it got loud occasionally.

"Tell me," the man murmured, and Kadar looked, expecting to be drilled on what he could remember. "What color is the sky?"

"I don't remem—what?"

"The sky. It has been so long since I've been out of the house since my friend is gone. The guards on their breaks bring me food. I try not to walk alone since the guards who do not know me enjoy harassing me."

Kadar blinked, then looked up. What a silly question. "Well, it's blue."

"What shade? Are there any clouds? Are there birds?"

He pursed his lips, studying the sky. It seemed really mundane—it was just blue. As he looked, he began to quickly pick up on things. There were birds, and clouds, and even the smoke of a fire burning rising into the sky. The clouds were thin as if someone had smeared them across the sky. It was incredible, really. He never would've noticed those things if Zachariah hadn't asked.

"Well," he chirped, "it's a brilliant blue, like the white of the sea tides mixed with the deep blue of the ocean. There isn't a big cloud in sight, but it looks as if there's little wispy trails of clouds going through the sky like worms after a rainstorm. They looks really cool, and there's a flock of birds flying toward the sun. There's smoke rising to the east, and it's crawling almost lazily into the sky. It must be from a large fire. It stretches on for miles, I think. It's beautiful."

Zachariah was smiling warmly as they reached the marketplace. "It sounds beautiful."

He smiled. The man sure seemed easy to get along with. Perhaps he knew that he couldn't be off any worse by not trusting him. Kadar certainly liked Zachariah. Although, it wasn't as if he could go to anyone else. Then he blinked. He couldn't really remember where those comparisons were from. Perhaps, if he just kept talking, he'd figure out who he was. Temporary memory problems, hopefully.

Kadar took his arm to steady him as they made their way, occasionally purchasing something. A fowl, some vegetables—everything Kadar would need to cook with over a fire. He found himself describing the condition of the fowl, even catching one for Zachariah to touch. They limped through the marketplace once and back before they had a full basket, and Kadar was in charge of holding the squawking, flapping bird. There was a small breeze that blew over them, and he smiled as they made their way back to the small, dinky house. Once inside, Zachariah showed him how and where to cook, and he took to it like a fish to water. It all felt natural. He was beginning to suspect that he didn't forget everything.

When it was done, he brought it over to the man, and he accepted it graciously.

"A cooked meal. It's been weeks since I've had one. Thank you."

Kadar smiled. "I'm not sure it's any—"

"Even if it was nothing more than burnt mush, I would love it. I'm sure it tastes good."

He laughed, and when Zachariah commented that it was the best food he had ever had, he found himself blushing.

"It-it was nothing."

"Are you sure you don't remember anything of your past life?"

He nodded and looked at the man. There were some things that were coming back to him, but it wasn't _memories_. More like… skills. Which was good. Which was excellent. It would serve him well when he went to get a job to help the poor man.

"I'm going to take your silence as agreement?"

It hit him like a hammer when he remembered Zachariah was blind and couldn't see his nod. He blushed in embarrassment. "Y-yeah."

The man nodded, eating slowly. The silence stretched on as Kadar let the man think, unsure of what to do. The city was in pieces, and he had seen the dead bodies lining the pathways, the people ridden by plague and famine. There had been guards everywhere as they walked to the marketplace, and he would nod back at the guards as they passed. They all seemed to acknowledge Zachariah, as if he held some sort of secret. He wondered if whomever the guards were fighting against, if they had captured him and tortured him for the secret.

He let his eyes roam over the multitude of scars. The sunken in tissue of where his eyes were—of where his eyes should be—made his heart go out to the man the most, and he couldn't imagine what it was like to live without vision. He looked at the crooked nose (a clear sign it had been broken and healed wrong, although where he learned this from, he was uncertain—perhaps it was a part of his past) and the scars of a jagged wound peeking out of the top of his ratty shirt. His hands were tough and callused, burn marks and slightly crooked fingers from broken bones (from the torture, a typical method, but once again, he didn't know why or how he knew this) healed wrong.

Without thinking, he reached out and took one of his hands. They were thick and callused. He could feel Zachariah's nonexistent gaze on him, but the man said nothing. Kadar turned it over to trace the burns on his palm, letting his fingers touch lightly. There was a small, puffy burn mark on the edge of his hand, just below the thumb, and it traveled around to the back, trailing around his wrist and slowly tapering off. There was an ugly mark just below his forefinger, out of place even against the out-of-place scar tissue. Zachariah's fingers curled slightly, and he move his fingers up to feel the bones. He could feel the joints in place, and in between the middle joints, there was a slight bump where the bone had healed out of place. He wondered if there were scars on his legs and feet.

He looked at the man, who seemed to be staring back, despite the lack of eyes, and he exhaled softly before looking back down and running his fingers over the ring finger again. He noticed a small iron band around it, and he eyes opened a little wider as he touched the ring. He hadn't even noticed it before. It seemed to almost blend in with the scar tissue around it, dark and grayish.

"She died, shortly after we were moved here to let my friend help take care of me. Diseases run rampant through the ruins of Acre."

Kadar closed his eyes, covering his hand with his own. "I'm so sorry. You've lived a horrid life."

"So do many of us."

"You aren't even that old."

He chuckled. "I have been blessed. Despite my injuries, everything God has done has done has a purpose."

"God?"

"That's right," the man murmured. "The assassins are Muslim."

Kadar bit his lip, waiting for a response. He desperately wanted to know whom the assassins were, and why Zachariah kept referring to them, but he figured it may have something to do with who the guards were fighting, and he didn't want to open old wounds. God forbid he be one of the guards' enemies.

Nevertheless, Zachariah smiled. "The day is still young: let's go to the docks, and I'll tell you how I am blessed."

Kadar nodded, but before he could agree, a knock came at the door. Zachariah pulled his hand back, scowling as he struggled to rise. Kadar popped up and gave him a hand, wincing from the pain from his wounds.

"Damn guards. Bet they're here to offer to take me to that damn Garnier man."

"Who?"

Zachariah limped over to the door, and Kadar waited at the entrance to the other room. Zachariah seemed mad. "Garnier is a twisted man, a psychopath who claims to heal. He experiments on the lame and the injured. My wife told me to refuse, and I have. I've seen the place he works. That man will burn in Hell for his transgressions when he dies—may it be soon, too."

He threw open the door.

"Zachariah Angel?"

"Yes?" he barked.

Kadar was hanging back in the other room, watching the three guards carefully. The bright, burning cross on their uniforms gave him the undeniable feeling they were his enemy. Come to think of it, he mused briefly, he had gotten that feeling from the rooftop guards, too, but had been too at ease with Zachariah to notice it.

"Garnier de—"

"No. I told you: I have no interest in what he's doing. I have survived three years with my limp, two without my wife, and I will continue living just fine. Tell your demon possessed fraud to leave me be."

"You haven't even seen what he plans to do," one of them said. "The man is a miracle worker."

"The man is a sadist. I have no wishes to let him work on me."

Kadar stepped forward, surprising the guards when he appeared, taking Zachariah's hand. "Perhaps you should just go… see. Listen to him."

Zachariah turned, and he looked furious. "Really? I will not go into Hell's lair—"

"Listen!" Kadar tugged him further inside, and he gestured for the guards to wait as he closed the door. "Please," Kadar whispered. "I know you don't know me, and I don't know who the assassins are, or if he's one of them, but if we go, if we see what it is like, we can report him."

"He will pay the guards off. The man is possessed by a demon sent by Satan himself. There is nothing good in that man. Just approaching the castle he works in makes my skin crawl."

Kadar fell silence, his mind churning. He knew he had to do something. Zachariah knew he had been an assassin. Perhaps he was still retaining some of that knowledge, too. After all, he had killed the fowl so easily that surely he could kill a man that wouldn't seem human. "Maybe in a few days… I can kill him?"

Zachariah was quiet. Kadar squirmed—maybe he had reached the boundaries of their friendship, what little there was. He looked at the ground, toeing the dirt and letting go of his hand and clasping his hands together behind his back. Maybe he was asking too much, but Kadar felt confident he could kill the man. It was the getting out that would need more planning.

"You seem like a good man, Kadar. I don't want to risk your life. You haven't even healed yet."

"I can be stealthy. I promise. You yourself said I had been an assassin."

"That was months ago."

"Look, I can do it. I promise. I'll complete it just like if I was killing the bird from earlier."

He wondered where these words were coming from, why he was saying them. They felt familiar. He knew he could do it. The silence dragged on for ages, and under Zachariah's powerful gaze, which sounded like an oxymoron to Kadar, he felt as if he had just ruined everything the past few hours had been for. He hoped he hadn't ruined their seedling of a friendship. He knew he could do this, though. He felt confident in himself. He was still young, and perhaps it would take a bit of training to remind himself, but he could do it.

"I want to repay you somehow. I can do this."

"Well," Zachariah began, pausing in his speech long enough to make Kadar shift again, "perhaps I could give the assassins a chance to redeem themselves."

Kadar offered a sheepish and hopeful smile before opening the door again and peeking out. "He's coming in a few days. Give us till the end of the week?"

The guards looked surprised, then the leader nodded and smirked. "A good man, you are. We'll tell Garnier you're coming in a week's time."

Kadar offered a smile and watched the men walk off before he ducked back inside and closed the door, squirming under (what he felt was) an intense stare-down from Zachariah.

"I hope you know what you are doing."

He offered an apologetic smile. "I do know. I promise."

Zachariah looked at the door, frowning, and Kadar shuffled in his spot.

"Look, I'm really sorry. I don't want to—"

"Save it," Zachariah sighed, turning and dragging himself back into the other room.

Kadar followed, feeling slightly ashamed at asking him to do that, and watched him sit down.

"I have been praying for forgiveness for the assassins for several years now. Perhaps my answer has finally come," he said.

Kadar sat beside him on a separate bed mat. "Who are the assassins, anyway?"

And he certainly got an explanation—one that took well into the night. Zachariah told him everything he knew, and Kadar took it all in, listening to how the men in the hooded robes were always causing problems here in Acre, disturbances, and how Zachariah just knew they had some sort of base here, but no one in Templar ranks could find it. He talked about how, before he was crippled and blinded, he searched for it on his own, and he knew he was close, but then six of the assassins had jumped him, and he had been captured and ruined. If he could've found it, he would've saved the people a lot of grief, and many families with children, husbands, and parents as guards would still be together. He would've had the entire assassin gathering in Acre wiped out, and King Richard's men would be safe once more to focus on the Muslim armies.

He spoke of how there was a mysterious assassin, known through the ranks and the people as the "Great Eagle" that would sometimes come, and he could always tell because there would be one screech, slightly different from all the rest of the eagles' cries around Acre, that would ring out over the city. He told Kadar how to know where he was in Acre based on the sound of the call and the resonance of the shrill call. He talked about how the Templars knew this also, but they lacked the intelligence to notice, and how the Eagle would swoop in, murder his target, and disappear in a flash of white. He also spoke about how much different his attire was, but those idiot guards were never attentive enough to pick him out of a group of scholars, and Kadar jumped when Zachariah told him about how, if he still had his sight, he would look for the Eagle and gladly shoot an arrow through that damned neck of his.

The moon was high in the sky before he stopped talking, and Kadar was appalled to know that he had once been a part of the assassin ranks. He was staring into the scarred eyes, his mouth hanging open as Zachariah fell silent, waiting, for his reaction. It was several minutes before he could speak.

"I-it sounds like none of these parties are good for the people."

Zachariah made a sharp, "Ah!" in the back of his throat and held up a finger. "This is where you are wrong."

"H-how?"

"I believe that King Richard would be good for his people—assuming he would give up this foolish conquest and kill the corrupt officials in his ranks. For instance, Garnier. The man needs to die so a better man can run the hospital. And the assassins would be good for the people, if they would stop murdering guards who have been charged to look for any suspicious men. If they did not leap from the roofs like monkeys, they would be okay. And even the Muslims would be okay, if they were not as blood-thirsty as the rest of the human race."

Kadar blinked, then blinked again. "You make it sound so simple to get along."

Zachariah sighed, lowering his hand. "And that is where I remember that as long as we live, conquest and war will never end. Human nature is nothing more than man's tendency to destroy himself."

Kadar looked at his lap briefly before his eyes were dragged back to Zachariah's hands. The man was a perfect example of everything he had said, and it was no wonder he hated the assassins so much. Still, to be tortured instead of killed meant he was hiding a secret, but he wouldn't press. Kadar reached out, pulling his left hand into his lap and running his fingers over the scars again. He almost felt as if he could extract some sort of comfort from touching the scars. He felt tears spill down his cheeks, and he felt Zachariah jump when one hit his hand.

"Kadar, what's the matter?"

"I-I'm sorry!" he cried, lifting one hand to rub furiously at his eyes. "I-I'm sorry all this happened to you! I'm sorry you were tortured because you were trying to help the people. I—" Zachariah shushed him, turning slightly to pull him close, and he started sobbing. "A-and I'm sorry that it was my people who tortured you, and I'm sorry that you're living in the poor district of a ruined city because of what they did to you. I'm—"

His words turned into nothing more than sobs, and he cried until he was so exhausted he couldn't handle it. He could feel one of Zachariah's arms around his shoulders, and the other caressing his cheek softly, wiping away tears. He could barely hear the sound of the man's voice over his loud, shuddering breaths. He fell asleep in the man's arms as the sun was just peeking over the horizon, his nose runny and his eyes red and puffy.

When he woke, he felt remarkably better. It was well passed mid-day, and he could hear Zachariah shuffling about the house, his leg dragging behind him. He sniffed and sat up, feeling much better as if that cry was all he needed. He got up, careful of his injuries, and walked into the only other room. Zachariah was sitting by a window, his head on his arms as he listened to the sounds of the streets.

"You're up," the man murmured, sitting straight.

Kadar jumped. He had been completely silent in his entry. He came when he saw Zachariah motion for him and knelt in front of him when he reached for his face. His eyes fluttered closed as his hands felt over the baggy skin. The callused, tough fingers trailed over his cheekbones and over his forehead. They trailed over his lips and down to his shoulders, patting them.

"You must feel better after last night."

Kadar smiled warmly. "I feel a lot better."

"Well then, perhaps we should search for a steady job for you today?"

"I can do that."

He chuckled. "You had me worried last night. You're quite an empathetic person."

Kadar smiled and rose, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Come on. Let's get out of this house and go start earning some money."

They set out after a while, walking through the streets of the poor district, Zachariah's cane helping him walk, and Kadar helping guide him along the streets. They quickly fell into a routine over the next four days as they searched for a job he could start up after they visited Garnier. Kadar started praying with the man in the morning and in the night, occasionally picking up a beautiful copy of the religious text from his religion that had been a gift from the king after his torture, and Kadar would read it to him. The man was impressive in his extensive knowledge of the book, and he said his wife helped him memorize much of it.

The day they were to set out, the three guards appeared late morning.

They were quiet as they walked there, and Kadar was by his side, a knife tucked safely into his robes. He still hadn't thought much about how they would get out, but he was confident he could get rid of Garnier. A third of the way there, Zachariah stopped.

"Did you hear that?"

The guards paused. "Hear what?"

Kadar looked at him as he turned to look at the entrance to the city. "What?"

The blind man continued looking toward the opening of Acre's poor district. Kadar watched him study the skyline as if he could see, then abruptly, he turned around and started limping off with purpose. Kadar stepped beside him, looking at him curiously as the guards started off again, muttering about how he was crazy.

"What was it?"

Zachariah looked solemn as he cast a side-glance at him.

"What?"

His voice was low: "The Great Eagle is in Acre."

Right after they stood on the outskirts of the castle, Zachariah stopped again, making the sign of the cross and bowing his head briefly. The guards stopped, looking slightly impatient, and Kadar waited until he was done praying before taking his hand and smiling as warmly as he could.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm sure you'll be okay."

He watched the man shudder. "This is the den of Satan, Kadar. Evil knows no bounds. Listen. He draws closer as he approaches the Bureau."

Kadar looked the skies, tilting his head at the eagle's screech. "H-how did you—"

He followed him into the castle to be met by an old man with bloodstains all over his frock. Zachariah nodded once, stiffly, and followed him, Kadar by his side. His skin began to crawl as he stood by Zachariah, looking around cautiously for ways to get out. It was a giant square, and the guards posted seemed to be busy goofing off.

"Welcome, my children."

Kadar could feel the demented, evil aura given off the man. He followed silently, amazed by Zachariah's high-held posture. They were led through the crowds of men in white shirts and tan pants, the occasional doctor passing by. He gripped Zachariah's hand tighter, walking farther into the "hospital." It reeked of death. They were led to a small room, just off to the side, where Garnier sat at a desk.

"Now that you're here, Zachariah, let's discuss what we're going to do."

There were two guards at the doorway, and he figured he should wait until they were in the main part of the surgery center before he took the man out. There had only been a few guards there, and he could fight them off easily (he knew his skills with a knife were better. Some of them looked no older than him.) He let them talk about how he planned to rebuild the muscles in his leg to grant him the ability to walk, fidgeting in the man's presence. He was creepy. Eventually, they were led to the main halls and seated at one of the tables as Garnier did his rounds.

"Are you going to?"

"Yes. I promised."

There was a loud noise, and the sound of someone screaming as they watched the guards drag a man out to the main courtyard. Zachariah made the sign of the cross and started praying as they waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually, Zachariah held a finger up, and Kadar listened. There, he could hear a screech, and it sounded close, frighteningly so.

"How do you do that?"

"My other senses have made up for the loss of my vision."

"Really?"

Zachariah nodded. They waited in silence until Garnier came back, and Kadar steeled him to get ready to murder the man.

"My apologies, a patient was trying to run away. Now, let's get start—"

The man gagged, and Zachariah looked at him, thoroughly confused. Kadar eyes grew wide when he saw the man behind Garnier. That hood—there was something familiar about it. In a blink of an eye, the body was on the ground, and the hooded man was staring at him.

"Kadar?"

That voice—he knew that voice. "Y-yes?"

The man stepped back, and he looked several shades paler. "Y-you're alive?"

"Y-yes? Who are you?"

He looked when he heard shouts from behind the man, and without thinking, he threw the knife and watched the chandelier fall, crushing several of them. He could hear their groans of pain from the men, the circular bars breaking their bones, but not killing them. The hooded man looked over his shoulder and smirked, pulling down his hood. Those eyes—that face—he knew that he knew that man from somewhere. He was beautiful.

"Kadar? What's going on?"

"Garnier is dead," he said as he looked at his friend.

He seemed to almost have an aura of sadistic grief around him. He was staring straight at the man, and Kadar got the feeling he knew who this man was.

"The man you're talking to killed him, yes?"

"Yes. Funny. I thought there would be more guards."

"I killed them, too."

"And so I look at the eyes of my most hated enemy. You are fortunate, assassin, I no longer have the capabilities to fight."

There was silence as the golden-eyed man looked at him closely, then furrowed his brow at Zachariah as the man got off the table. The man jolted, and his eyes narrowed further.

"You," he hissed. "You're not dead yet?"

Zachariah laughed, cold and cruel, and Kadar stepped between the man and his caretaker.

"It'll take more than torture."

The golden-eyed man snarled and tried to stare Kadar down, but he drew himself up. "Touch him, and I'll kill you."

"Just like your brother," he growled, and Kadar jerked when the man grabbed his arms and kissed him. "Maybe now Malik will forgive me."

And just like that, the man was gone, and Kadar was left reeling as he tried to figure out how that man—that assassin—knew him, and who Malik was. The name certainly sounded familiar. After several minutes of listening to the panicked chaos and trying to figure out what just happened, he sighed.

"Let… let's go. That was anti-climatic."

"Death is often anti-climatic. And now, many more families have lost a member. Tell me, what did he look like?"

He helped Zachariah down from the table, pursing his lips.

"He was an assassin. He was dressed in those robes you described all that time ago."

"He has not changed at all."

They were walking out of the hospital after picking their way through the scramble of "ill" and the guards, and Kadar could feel someone watching him. He turned to see absolutely nothing as he stepped closer to Zachariah.

"It seems as if the Great Eagle knows you. You'd best be on your guard from here on out."

Kadar nodded, helping the man home.


	2. Chapter 2

The next two months passed without any sort of disturbance. He found a small paying job, helped Zachariah around the house, and the two fell into a friendly relationship. They prayed together, talked together, ate meals together, and Kadar found himself falling in love. He found himself enjoying the man's attention, and he counted him every day in his blessings. Nevertheless, he still didn't press about the torture. All things would come in time. The fact that the Great Eagle knew him upset him.

It was nearly six months later before he had his next run-in with the Great Eagle. He was scrabbling on the rooftops, listening to Zachariah's instructions, as he tried to find the place where the Bureau had once been. It had taken a little bit, but he had convinced the man to show him where it was. He assumed that was why he was tortured by the assassins, but it still didn't explain why he hadn't been killed on sight so as not to reveal the location. He wanted to know more, ask more, but he was afraid to. Zachariah had no qualms in struggling to tell him about his torture, or the days that he spent down there, but Kadar was nevertheless afraid. It was a niggling feeling, worming its way into his heart and mind as if to warn him that it was a secret he didn't want to know.

He also figured the torture was the cause of screaming at night Zachariah sometimes made. He didn't want to know what it was like.

"Here's the building you described!" he shouted down, panting and out of breath.

Zachariah looked up, his cane in his hands as a child ran by. "With the compass, and the wave beneath it?"

"Yes! It's right next to the ivy-covered roof!"

"Is there any way you can help me up? I wish to feel that mark for myself."

"Sure!"

Kadar jumped down and rushed around briefly to find a ladder to help push him up. After deciding that wouldn't work, he wrapped Zachariah's arms around his neck and his good leg around his waist.

"Hold on!"

He climbed up, almost regretting it and telling him it was impossible, but he remembered the stories Zachariah had told him. He spent days following assassins, getting two steps forward and one step back on good days, and one step forward and two steps back on most. He spent hours hiding in rooftop gardens just for one glimpse of those robes, and would leap out and watch them until they vanished, and he would mark the location and hide there the next time. He described that brutal satisfaction—that overwhelming relief and pride he had felt when first saw that mark, that grey mark carved into the stone. That image was permanently burned into his mind, and it taunted him, knowing he had never gotten any further. This was the least Kadar could do.

And then it had all gone to Hell. He found himself surrounded, bound and gagged, and dragged off to the fortress where the assassins lived. He was kept in the dungeons, tormented by the old man who ran the place, beaten by young assassins training for interrogations. He had never even gotten to reveal the location, touch that stone, or pace that gated-off roof. He had spent so many hours trying to find it so that he wouldn't disappoint the man he was employed to, and it had all spat in his face. When he had returned, rescued by a spy in the assassin ranks, he had been defeated. There was no point in him revealing the location. It would've given him no glee since he couldn't have watched the slaughter. It was petty and childish, but if they were going to suffer, he wanted to see it. He wanted to hear it, and he knew they wouldn't let him near it in his condition.

Then, Zachariah explained, as he grew to accept his blindness, crippled leg, and the death of his wife, all the while cursing Acre, for his wife had died by the end of the middle of his second year there, he started thinking. He realized the assassins believed in their cause, and that they, too, had families and children. It was during those days of loneliness, as he pitied himself and hated the world, that he came to the conclusion he would not reveal the location—for the assassins were just as human as he was, and they were simply looking out for their families. He had seen how happy they were in their village before he was dragged into the dungeons. It was during those thoughts that he realized nothing was black and white—if only he could teach the others to think in shades of grey.

They clambered onto the roof, and Kadar set him down, taking his hand and leading him to the engraving. He watched Zachariah kneel down with difficulty before letting his fingers touch the stone. Kadar was entranced as he watched him run his hands all over the stone, slowly, tracing the outline of the odd engraving. Those brutally scarred hands, rough and callused, touched the stone gently, reverently, and he wanted to touch them. They seemed to have a sort of respect for the symbol, and sometimes they would curls, his nails scraping up the dirt against the symbol as if he wanted to hit it. He knelt down and placed his hands over Zachariah's, who look up at him.

He hated how the man had no eyes, but he had gotten good at reading Zachariah's aura and body language to tell what he was feeling. He could feel the grief radiating off him, and he let the man lean forward cautiously to press his face into the crook of his neck as if he were going to cry.

"This symbol," Zachariah muttered, his voice laden with regret, "is what I ruined my life over."

Kadar drew him into a hug, sitting there with him as his breath grew ragged.

"This symbol is what took what little I had. My abilities with a bow and arrow, my abilities to run and walk and jump, that year with my wife—it took it all."

Kadar let him cry in his arms, going through all the motions without the tears. He felt so bad for the man as he dry-sobbed in his arms, and he found himself running hand through his hair, occasionally running his finger over the scarred flesh on his eyes—eyes that were robbed of something so simple as shedding tears. The man lamented the fact that he had let his life be ruined by such a stupid thing, that the thing had cost him everything, and that still he got no pleasure from it. He sobbed as he cursed the assassins, cursed his employer, cursed Acre and everything in it. Kadar's heart was practically ripping in two as he cursed his own existence and the nightmares that still plagued him, the sounds of guards heckling a citizen bringing him back to those unwanted days (Kadar had often wondered why he often told him to choose a different route. He must have heard them). It took a while before Zachariah stilled as they sat on the stone, and he glanced when he heard something land on the other end of the roof.

"He is here, is he not? The one who came down with the old man to torment me," Zachariah murmured.

The assassin rose slowly from his crouching position, a smirk on those scarred lips. "He still hasn't given up, has he?"

When he took a step nearer, Kadar set Zachariah down and brandished the knife his friend made sure he had taken with. "Leave us alone."

The man pulled down his hood, and there was an amused glint in his golden eyes. "You can't beat me."

"But I can die trying."

He glanced briefly to find Zachariah hunched over the symbol in grief, his hands balled in fists against the stone as he curled in on himself, and when he looked back, he jumped. Those eyes were right in front of him, and the wrist with the knife was restrained.

"You grow soft, Kadar. Have you forgot—"

"I am not an assassin!" he screeched, jerking back. "How could I be a part of something that would do that," he jabbed toward Zachariah, "to a man!"

He shook his head slowly, letting go of his wrist. "You have forgotten everything." The assassin turned slightly. "Malik, come out here."

He saw a grouchy looking man with one arm emerge after a bit, holding an inkpot. He looked familiar—so familiar it hurt. It was a heart-wrenching pain that shot through him, and he staggered briefly. He should know this man. He watched the man give him a close once-over. The scruffy-looking man's jaw dropped, and the inkpot as well, landing with a clatter as his jaw snapped shut and his eyes widened. He looked at the man closely.

"K-Kadar?"

Without thinking, he kneed the assassin in the crotch, amazed when he avoided the knife, and he backed up a step, his gaze flicking between the assassin and the man in the black robes below as he brandished the knife.

"W-who are you guys? How do you know me?"

He stood protectively in front of Zachariah as the one-armed man scrambled out through the roof, taking a step closer. Kadar hunched down, ready to fight them. The man paused, still looking surprised, then gave him a pathetic look.

"It is true. You do not remember us."

"Who are you?" he screeched, and he saw the assassin look, irritated, at the guards stationed nearby as they looked over.

"Hush, Kadar."

"Why should I? Leave us alone!" he shouted, hoping the guards would come.

They must have at least turned, for the assassin was now on the defensive. The one-armed man looked crushed.

"It's me."

Kadar scoffed. "Hello, Me."

"Malik Al-Sayf. Your brother."

"I have no brother," Kadar growled, but it would explain the painful feeling that he should remember him.

He shifted when he heard Zachariah murmur, "I remember you. You were there once as well, where you not? You spoke of your brother."

Malik gave the hunched over form a scrutinizing stare. Zachariah was still pressed against the stone, his hands in fists above his head as he curled against the symbol. His forehead was resting on the stone, his face pressed into the dirt that covered the sign. Kadar adjusted himself into a better fighting stance.

"The sleuth who knew the location of the Apple that Al Mualim wanted. That damn Templar Robert's personal detective," the assassin elaborated. "The one who discovered where we were located."

Kadar was thoroughly confused as Malik's gaze hardened, but adjusted the knife in his hands. Why anyone would look for a fruit was beyond him. And Zachariah wouldn't have worked for the Templars.

"Oh, yes," was the only response he got.

He didn't let this confusing conversation stop him from standing protectively over his caretaker. Malik snarled, stepping forward slightly as he gestured wildly.

"How does it feel, Templar? To know that even though you remained silent during your torture, we still have the Apple? You failed. Your sacrifice was pointless. You could've saved yourself the agony—do you still feel the metal rods, cooked to red, gouging out your eyes? Did you go fleeing back to Robert de Sable to whisper the location in his ear?"

With that, Kadar attacked, and he reveled in the surprised look on the one-armed man's face. He had hardly struck once before he heard Zachariah call for him. He snarled, backing down and to the man as he sat up. He helped his friend up.

"No, assassin," he whispered, standing there, his weight on one leg. He was still staring down at the sign, his shoulders hunched in grief. "No. I have not told anyone of this place. At first because I was mad I could not see all of you ripped to shreds, then because I realized you are men, and honorable ones at that. I did not know you had the treasure in the cave, but it hardly matters to me now. There is not much that matters, save for if this man I now watch over will live to see another sunrise."

His voice was quiet, but strong, as he looked at the two assassins. Kadar was by his side, and Zachariah shook his head. "I will not expect you to understand. I cannot. Even with the loss of your arm—"

"How did you—"

Kadar growled, "Shut up."

"—even with the loss of your arm, there is no way for you to know what I have gone through, the struggle I have overcome. I am still haunted, every night, by each face of the men who hit me. I still see them—still feel it. There is nothing that will ever erase that from my mind. I still live paranoia that you will hunt me down should you ever find out where I live."

Kadar wanted to rip that satisfied smirk from Malik's face. "I heard you curse your existence."

Zachariah looked down at the mark on the stone and muttered, "The only things I regret is letting this mark consume me, and taking so long to forgive."

"Oh, so you expected us to believe you've forgiven us?" The golden-eyed assassin scoffed.

"No," Zachariah whispered as he knelt down again, his fingers dipping into the groove of the compass as he inhaled slowly. "I do not. But it has freed me from my hatred. It opened my sealed eyes and let me see what others fail to. It took many hours of praying and hunting in myself to find the power to forgive, but I am better now because of it. I am free of the burden hatred put on me."

He was silent as he let his fingers run over the etching again. After a few minutes, he whispered, "Kadar, describe it to me."

"I thought you remembered it."

"It could not hurt to hear it again."

He sounded so pained, Kadar couldn't help but oblige him, lowering the knife. "It is dark grey, as if the storm clouds were rolling in, covering the bricks around it. The bricks are worn and dusty from many feet that cross over the symbol—" he could hear the familiar sounds of Zachariah crying quietly "—small pebbles from the street gather in the groove of the mark, which is as light as the sand in the desert. At its deepest, it is carved maybe a fingernail deep, and the pebbles that gather in it clump like frightened children in the groove." He listened as Zachariah's dry sobbing got harder, and he wanted to punch the two assassins for looking so shocked. "There is a ledge, by the edge of the pointy end that stands a finger from the bricks the symbol is carved into, and attached to the ledge is the open rooftop and the ivy. It almost blends in to the grey stone around it, covered with dust."

He looked at Zachariah, who was still heaving, but now, it almost looked like laughter. He was shaking his head, a hand over his eyes as he sobbed.

With a semi-hysterical voice, he said, "This—this is what my life was ruined over? Kadar, look at it—take it in. Let it be burned into your memory." Zachariah drew a deep breath before laughing high-pitched, manically. "This symbol has caused more grief and rage—more pain and agony—than Satan himself could've hoped for! What world is this?" The blind man shook his head, and he fisted his hair and pulled, the creepy laughter never ceasing. "It was this stupid symbol that cost me my life! This is what I was tortured for! This is what I was paid to find!" He threw his hands in the air, his attitude changing from hysteria to anger in a flash. He hissed, "This—never, Kadar—was my obsession, my downfall. Never let this happen to you, or you will end up the pity of all around you. Let us leave this place. I have forgotten it and the bad memories."

Zachariah had his hands digging into the healed over eyes, and he was muttering to himself, hissing and cursing as his fingers curled into the maimed flesh. Kadar blinked, then looked at the other two warily before gently taking the man's hand from his face. Zachariah hissed, long and low, but his anger seemed to melt back into grief as he helped him up. They looked as if they were stunned into silence. He wasn't going to question what Zachariah asked. There was no way he knew what the man was feeling.

As Kadar helped him down, Zachariah called, "Let go of the hatred you bare, brother of Kadar. It will make your life a happier one."

Kadar simply let him down, and they walked in silence. The streets were alive with activity, and the aura of his friend seemed to only add to the depressed aura of the ruined city. A ruined city of ruined people. He watched Zachariah compose himself, trying to gather whatever was racing through his brain before he spoke.

"Three years ago, after I escaped, I spent a week in prayer, and another eleven months trying to search myself for forgiveness with the help of my wife. Then she died a year later, and I cursed everything around me."

Kadar was silent, kicking a bird out of his path before he could trip over it.

"I was employed long before by the great Templar Robert de Sable to be his personal archer and detective. My first mission was to find something called 'the Apple.' I still have no other knowledge of it other than what was revealed today, and what it would look like. I found it and told Robert. He was so pleased that he assigned me to find the assassins' hideout in Acre, the place where we moved to where I healed later on. They were raising Hell after King Richard took it over."

He reached and took Zachariah's hand, causing him to pause briefly.

"I found the hideout, and the assassins captured me and tortured me for the location of the treasure. The old man knew of who I was, and I was a threat to his power. He often came down to torment me, and the Great Eagle followed at his heels like a dog, licking his boots whenever he could. He brought who must have been your brother down, once, and he watched as they gave me the wound that burned my left nipple off."

Kadar winced.

"I did not think of it at the time, but he did mention a brother by your name, and that is how I know who he is. Bare him no ill will, Kadar, for what he did not do. He was simply following orders. If everyone tried to lead, we would have anarchy. The trick is getting the right man."

He glanced over his shoulder, realizing the two assassins were following them.

"I refused to give up the information, and eventually, I escaped with the help of a Templar spy. However, I was ruined. I could not be of service to Robert any more, yet Robert still takes care of me, providing me with enough to get by on. I still act as his ears and eyes in this miserable excuse of a city."

He led them to an open bench overlooking the sea, and Kadar could see, in his peripheral vision, the two assassins listening on another bench. Zachariah sighed, and it reminded him of an old man who knew his end was coming.

"I didn't want to forgive them, truly, for taking so much from me. Do you remember, Kadar, all that time ago, when I told you that everything happens for a reason?"

Kadar nodded, and he knew that Zachariah knew.

"The first night you were here, I volunteered to take you in for my own sick reasons. I yelled at you; I kicked you as best I could, and I gave you several new wounds."

He was shocked. Zachariah was struggling as he tried to calm himself, swallowing thickly.

"I _hated_ you. I had not forgiven anyone yet. I was a wreck. I have been a wreck. I lied."

He watched the blind man cover his eyes, choking again and bending forward, his back moving as if he were crying.

"I am sorry I have kept all this from you. I decided I would let you heal almost completely, then ruin you as your kind ruined me, but as I watched you get well, those months in pain and unconsciousness, I began to realize that you were just as human as I was. I lied to you, Kadar, and I apologize. It was not until you arrived that I began to think… that I began to heal."

He was silent as he watched Zachariah. He was sobbing again, his breathing erratic and his shudders almost violent.

"If you wish to return to you old life, I will keep no ill will toward you. If you wish to kill me, it is my just reward. I have been set free of my chains, and I wish for you a better life than watching over a spiteful and vindictive man who has no future, who ruined his life over a symbol on a wall."

Kadar was quiet for several minutes, staring at the man he had come to love over the past few months. He couldn't believe that this man was the same one as one he described.

"A-and…"

"It is all the truth. I promise. Every last word."

He watched Zachariah cry into his hands, his entire body shaking as he sobbed, and let his gaze flicker to the confused gaze of his brother, who was watching from a bench across the small balcony—the assassin was gone. The other people shuffling by stared, and Kadar couldn't feel it in himself to hate the man. He pulled Zachariah into a hug.

"I don't want to leave you," he said. "You've helped pick me up after being injured. So what if you gave me a few new injuries? I was unconscious anyway!"

He smiled warmly at the top of the man's head as he felt Zachariah jerk in surprise.

"You've shown me a great time! I can't blame you for hating everybody who did that to you. I don't know how you managed to forgive them. Was it really that big of a difference when you forgave us?"

He laughed playfully at Zachariah's confused aura. Apparently, he had been expecting him to leave. He linked their hands together and looked at him as the healed-over eyes turned on him.

"I'm glad I met you, and I'm glad that you were the one to take care of me! You said everything happens for reason, right?"

He smiled brightly, and he could feel the people around him starting to catch onto the vibe.

"I think, that if God really did do everything for a reason, then he sent me to you so that you could learn to forgive. He wiped my memory of the whole Templar-Assassin thing so that I wouldn't hold a grudge against you beforehand! You are a good man, Zachariah. You just needed to find him again."

He leaned in and kissed Zachariah's cheeks, a common English greeting he had seen around the city.

"I don't want to go back to the assassins. I want to stay right here and help you continue to grow."

He smiled through Zachariah's stunned silence, and he laughed when the man pulled him into a tight hug bumping their heads almost painfully as his friend clung tightly to him. It was desperate, and Kadar couldn't help but hug back, nuzzling against his hair and the bald scars that crawled on his head.

"I like you, Zachariah, and _I_ think that I don't mind what you did for the Templars because you were trying to look out for your wife, right?"

He felt Zachariah squeeze him tighter. Kadar could almost feel the tears of relief coming from his eyes. He hugged him back tightly, humming merrily.

"You don't have to be afraid of me leaving. I'm happy here."

Zachariah pulled back reluctantly. He watched as he covered his hand with the two larger, callused ones. He could see the beginnings of a smile as the man shook his head minutely.

"There are no words to describe my thanks to you, Kadar. You have given me a second chance, in more than one way."

He moved closer so they were sitting hip-to-hip. He had seen other men do it, and it seemed to comfort Zachariah. Looking up, he glanced at Malik, who was watching them, looking slightly pained. His friend held a finger up, and he craned his head to hear the Eagle's screech.

"Where is he?"

"In the rich district."

They were silent a time longer, before Kadar had to ask questions bubbling up.

"How did you manage to forgive me and the assassins?"

Zachariah swallowed before sighing. "I have not forgiven the assassins."

"You just said—"

"There is a difference, Kadar. When I think of them as humans, as people scrabbling to make a life, I see them as individuals. I can forgive them that way, but when I think of them as assassins, that old, bitter hatred bubbles up again."

Kadar tilted his head.

"The same applies to the Templars. The longer I think about it, the more I crave to hear of Robert's death. Then it hits me that if he died, I would no longer receive pay."

"But you have me, now."

"And so do I have the craving to hear of Robert's fall."

Kadar was quiet, letting him still hold his hand as he looked out at the sea. Then, he made up his mind: he may not have completely understood, but he was going to help Zachariah learn to forgive completely.

"Come on! Let's go home."

"You are not mad?" Zachariah asked.

Kadar smiled as he pulled him up. "Not only am I not mad, but also, I don't accept your apology."

"W-what?"

"I do not accept your apology because you are not the same man who took me in after I was injured. And so, you have nothing to apologize for." He laughed at how miffed his friend looked, and he turned to gesture to Malik. "Come on! There will be enough food to feed you! I want to know more about my past life."

It took a while, but eventually, Malik rose and walked over cautiously. He looked contemplative.

"So tell, what was I like before I was injured? What kind of life did we lead? Tell me about everything."

He started guiding Zachariah down the streets, and it was clear he was nervous in his "brother's" presence. He pushed and pulled, asking about everything and even wanting to know if he had seen Zachariah after he was captured. Malik bowed his head.

"Yes. I did. And he was right. I did mention you to Altair."

Kadar nodded, going to speak, but was cut off.

"There had never been a more pathetic sight in all my life, but I felt nothing."

"How could you feel anything?" Zachariah murmured. "I was nothing more than a secret holder. Break me open, and you have the information you want."

"I am sorry."

Zachariah shook his head. "Do not bring up such bad memories. I have done all I can to forget them. Bring me no more grief."

Malik nodded once, then looked at the blind man again as Kadar nudged a cat out of the way. "You seem to be getting along well."

"Thanks to your brother."

"How did you know that I held such hatred?"

"It is easy to tell when hatred has a hold on you. It twines its way into the very core of who you are, and if you are not quick to remove it, when your hatred is satisfied, you are left with nothing. I fear that it will happen to you."

Malik was quiet as Kadar chastised the cat that seemed set on twisting itself between Zachariah's legs. Zachariah stumbled over it, and Kadar picked up the cat, throwing it out of the way.

"When I grew to accept forgiveness, it was like having the shackles removed. I no longer saw you as the faceless, hooded heathens that took my life away, but as humans, doing their best to protect their loved ones and stand for what they believe in."

"What he said to you, back there—"

"About the apology?"

"Yes. Those were strong words."

"Indeed. Perhaps you should borrow them."

"What?"

"There is no doubt that the Eagle will apologize. You should borrow the words, and let forgiveness clean you. It will be hard, but—"

"There is no way that man will apologize," Malik spat, and Zachariah chuckled.

"And such is the closed eyes of those blinded by hate. Believe me. He will surprise you. After all, I surprised myself."

They were almost at the small house when Zachariah stopped and twisted to look toward the rich district. Kadar picked up the eagle cry easily. Malik, not so much.

"What's going on?"

Zachariah frowned, then held a finger up. Kadar listened closely, leaving Malik confused. Then, the alarm bells went off, and Zachariah nodded once, ducking into the house. "He was successful. Whoever was his mark is dead now."

Kadar smiled. He looked when Malik placed a hand on his shoulder.

"How does he do that?"

"I have no idea, brother," he said, not even realizing the name he had tacked onto the end. "But I am learning, too."

Malik smiled, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. "I am glad you are alive."

Kadar smiled back as he led him inside. "There is still so much I want to know."

"I will answer it all as best I can, Kadar."

Dinner was far from quiet. He asked questions and answered his brother's. The atmosphere quickly grew warmer as they talked, until they were laughing and exchanging stories about everyday life. Zachariah was quiet, listening to it all, and he could still feel the tension between his brother and his caretaker. Eventually, Zachariah dismissed himself to stand in the street, watching the night guard go by. He walked out shortly after with Malik.

"You…" Kadar started.

"I do not hate him, Kadar."

"Then why are you…"

"Because even though he has forgiven me, the wounds are still fresh. There are some things that can never heal completely," Malik said.

"Such as the loss of your arm," Zachariah murmured.

"Or the loss of everything you held dear."

Kadar was thoroughly confused. He didn't understand what they were talking about, and he was glad he didn't. He knew that he couldn't. He didn't hate anyone like they did, so he stood there, shuffling his feet and trying to let them connect in the silence.

"Describe it to me," Zachariah murmured, looking at the sky.

Kadar jumped and looked up, feeling like a nuisance. "What?"

"The sky. I wish to see."

A smile pulled at his lips. "It's beautiful, Zachariah. It's so dark—like the deepest of the seas! It's as if someone pulled a giant sheet of black silk across the sky. I can almost see your God's fingers stretched out over it, all the millions of stars dangling by strings from his fingers. They dance, you know?"

"Do they now?"

"Yes. They do. They twinkle and shimmer in the night—and they look like they're all trying to outdo one another."

"And the moon?"

"Gone. It is a new moon tonight."

Zachariah smiled, and Kadar watched those scarred over eyes gaze, unseeing, stare at the sky above. "And any birds?"

There was a ruffle of clothing, and a flash of black leaping across the buildings.

"There is one," Kadar said as the figure landed in front of him. "The Great Eagle of Masyaf."

The man straightened, and Kadar realized him as Altair. He glanced around nervously, his lips pulled into a frown. "Malik, are you leaving in the morning?"

"What does it matter to you, novice?"

Altair shrugged, keeping his gaze for a few minutes. He lingered a while longer as if he had something to say, occasionally opening his mouth to speak but closing it, and looked at the three men before turning and vanishing into the night.

"I think you will find him surprising."

Kadar simply reveled in the warm night as he felt Malik take one hand and Zachariah, the other. The stars twinkled gaily overhead, and he was excited to know that he now had his past back, and although he wasn't proud of it, he had to act strong. His friend needed him. He was going to help him forgive—especially since he had come so far on his own. The cool air enveloped him, and he wished he could fly, straight up to the stars, and catch one for his caretaker and another for his brother.

"I take it you will not return with me," Malik said, and it was pained.

"I am needed here. But our door is always open."

Malik was silent, and that night, he slept by his brother on the bed mats, sandwiched between him and Zachariah. When morning came, they ate a silent breakfast and helped Malik prepare to leave. Kadar hugged his brother tightly. As he mounted the horse, his brother turned to his friend.

"I will try your advice, Zachariah."

"A bold statement," he replied.

"I will seek forgiveness in myself. It will take a while, but—"

"Our door is open, and Kadar is literate."

Malik nodded as the horse whinnied.

"Malik," Kadar began.

His brother looked at him, and he winced under the pained gaze. "Yes?"

"Why did you come here if you hate Altair so much?"

Malik let a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. "After Altair visited the Jerusalem Bureau for the first time with that news, I sent a letter to the Rafiq here, and he agreed, although he was hesitant about it, since his memory was bad. After he completed his second mission in Jerusalem, Altair took me here to keep a lookout for you."

"And the third time he visits?" Zachariah asked.

"If there is one, I hope it is not before I can say that I've forgiven him."


	3. Chapter 3

Kadar should've known that it wouldn't have been the last time he saw his brother. Another few months passed, and during that time, he saw Malik again and wrote him letters. His letters told him about everything ("You haven't changed at all," Malik once wrote) that happened, and he would read his brother's letters to Zachariah, watching his expressions at how irritated his brother would get at the guards. Zachariah also found out Kadar loved sticky buns though those letters (which Kadar didn't remember), and the first time he purchased one for him, he practically melted into a pile of happy, honeyed goo.

He found himself enjoying his caretaker's company, regardless of the terrible secrets he admitted to. He would sit there and hold his hand at night, running his fingers over the scars. He had them memorized, but he was fascinated by them. He would touch Zachariah's scarred over eyes, and on nights where it was warm enough to sleep shirtless, he would run his fingers over the unfathomable scars on his stomach and back. He would wake every morning and describe the sky, and when he was done with his work, they would sometimes walk around the city, and Kadar would talk about everything he saw as they made their way to absolutely nowhere.

Despite being poor, he thought he had a good life.

He hadn't heard the bells in a while, or the great screech of Altair, and he was starting to get restless. He wanted to see those golden eyes again. He enjoyed the stories of Zachariah's travels, and how, often, he heard crazy stories about the man.

They were down at the docks the next time he saw the Great Eagle.

He and Zachariah were sitting on the docks, watching the boats, guards, and birds. People were milling about, and he was providing images to Zachariah. The man had _insisted_ that they walk down to the docks, practically dragging him from the house.

Kadar laughed. "One of the birds just pooped on a drunkard's head! He's staggering around like a fool, waving his bottle around and spilling it everywhere!"

Zachariah laughed, their hands linked as their toes moved back and forth in the water. To any other person passing by, it would've been seen as a safety precaution. To Kadar, it was a simple sign of trust, just to reaffirm that he wouldn't leave him. There was a shout, and a small crowd gathering at the other end of docks.

"Master Sibrand is here," Zachariah said quietly. "It will be best just to ignore him until he comes this way, which he undoubtedly will."

He held a finger up, and there was a screech. Kadar smiled, his eyes trained on the crowd, wondering what was going on.

"So why does he—"

Zachariah held the finger to his lips, looking toward the crowd. He watched the entire time, someone screaming and yelling like a lunatic. After they dispersed, Kadar noticed a dead body laying there and a man with a horned helmet on his head. He walked their way with purpose. The man stopped behind Zachariah, placing a hand on his shoulder. With a flick of his other wrist, he sent his guards away.

"What have you heard?"

Carefully, his friend lifted the man's hand from his shoulder and kissed it. "Master Sibrand, you killed the wrong man."

Kadar watched him take off his helmet, and he was on the defensive, ready to help his friend if he was pushed in. The man had blonde hair and clear blue eyes. They were cold, and cruel, the effects of paranoia etched into his face.

"Your followers failed to read you all of my letter, didn't they, sir?"

"What?"

Kadar stiffened as the man drew his hand back and puffed up. His eyes were _blazing_ with indignity.

"I told you explicitly not to trust them with my letters, _sir._"

Kadar thought he sounded more like a mother chastising her child, rather than a servant to a master.

"I gave them specific details to reveal the assassin. He comes for you, Master Sibrand."

Kadar tried not to laugh when the man turned several shades paler. At the same time, he tried not to frown at Zachariah so blatantly betraying the assassins. He must have written the letter with the help of a guard while he was working. He couldn't believe that Zachariah was so openly betraying them in front of him.

"If I might make a suggestion, Master?"

"Speak."

"Go to your boat. Leave it in the posts and concentrate your forces on the front of the ship. The assassin cannot swim, and you will be well protected with water at your back."

The blond man pursed his lips, studying his friend. "Anything else?"

Zachariah's lips quirked into a smile. "He follows you as we speak, sir. You should hurry. Let him know that you know that he is here. Do not stop moving. Assume your guards are incapable of taking down the Great Eagle, so be ready, sir."

"Thank you. I will send word to the higher ups."

Zachariah waved a hand dismissively. "I am happy here, with my friend and my life. Serving you has been good, Master Sibrand."

"Then before we set out, you will accompany me."

Zachariah nodded, and Kadar furrowed his brow at the smirk. "As you wish, Master Sibrand."

The man walked off, and Kadar hissed. "You be—"

"Quiet. I watch out for the lives of the guards and have carved a clear path to the ship. The assassin cannot swim, but he can jump, and he is good, no doubt. Watch the posts, and you will see."

Kadar fumed, fueled by hatred that Zachariah would do that. He forced himself to watch the water, not even the sight of the drunkard swinging his bottle enough to make him laugh. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he saw Altair leaping from post to post as he approached the ship. He scrambled up the watchtower and slew the guard there. Zachariah harrumped.

"One man dead compared to dozens. Now argue that I have done the wrong thing."

Zachariah waved, and Kadar blinked when Altair nodded in return, clinging to the side of the watchtower. He watched him make his way over the ship, climb up and over the side, murder Sibrand silently, and then go back the way he came. Zachariah sat quietly, his head bowed as he tightened his grip on Kadar's hand. He let his feet play in the water. All seemed quiet for a moment, and then the guards found Sibrand's body, and an uproar started. The guards went crazy, running past them and all over the place as they tried to find the assassin. Zachariah sat quietly, letting the chaos pass him by as if he didn't exist. Kadar watched the commotion, fascinated as everything went to Hell, but absolutely nothing got done.

Around sunset, things calmed down, and he jumped when Altair landed on the other side of Zachariah, peeling his boots off and letting his feet splash in the water. There was a soft exhale from the Great Eagle, and he found himself staring. The man's feet were making no noise as he swung them back and forth in the water, staring. He was leaning on his elbows, which were resting on his legs, his hands clasped together.

"I should kill you for that."

Zachariah shrugged nonchalantly. "But you won't."

"I should."

"You won't."

Altair growled, but fell silent, looking out over the water as the sunset fell on it, causing it to twinkle.

"Kadar," Zachariah murmured. "Describe it to me."

He looked back out over the water, and before he could even open his mouth, Altair spoke.

"How can I let him know I'm sincere?"

He watched his friend's lips twitch. "Who?"

Altair frowned, turning his gaze. "You know who."

"Do I now?"

"Malik."

Zachariah smiled softly, shaking his head. "I wondered if you would ask." There was silence for a little bit, then he spoke. "You are not the same man as before, correct?"

"I hope not."

"Then simply open your heart and speak. Only he can find forgiveness."

"Surely it won't be as hard, knowing that I'm alive. Maybe he could get transferred to Acre!" Kadar said, smiling warmly at Altair, and he was please to see a sad smile in return.

He looked back over the water.

"Thank you for your words."

When he looked back to invite Altair to stay that night, he was gone.

It wasn't too much longer before they received a message inviting them to live in the castle of Masyaf. Malik would be there, too, and they would all be rebuilding the hideout after something bad had happened. Kadar wasn't sure what, something about a piece of fruit and some old guy, but he was content enough to be with his brother and the Great Eagle.

He had been worried sick about Zachariah at first, getting him a new cane and being with him everywhere. He blocked children from bumping into him and warned him of any bumps in the road. It was odd, to say the least. He was so used to the confident-walking man from Acre, now feeling his way along the roads of Masyaf like a skittish colt. The hills were Hell for him, too much weight in his bad leg keeping him from getting to know the village completely, but the man had no desire to go back to Acre. Their house was solid; they were out of the warpath; they had food, and they were near Kadar's only family. Still, he remained confined to the base of the village, but he never once saw the smile waver from the man's face.

In order to gain, Kadar surmised, he must give. Still, the years passed quickly after that. He saw the birth of his Altair's children. He watched them from the village of Masyaf, having no desire to go back into the Order. He was happy living with Zachariah in their tiny house. Malik and the children were constantly over, and they seemed to love his blind friend. He wondered if Zachariah could get any happier. He watched him fall in love with the children, spoiling them rotten every time they came over (although, let it never be said that Kadar didn't do his fair share of spoiling with the bookkeeping he did for them at the castle). Malik got mad, chastising them, in which Altair would sigh, and Maria would scowl, but nevertheless, Zachariah learned to make sticky buns, and there was always a plate of honeyed buns for the kids. They often brought the other novices with them, and their house became a central gathering for assassins. If one of them got in late, their door was open, and even though Zachariah couldn't walk around as much, Kadar had never seen him happier. They were surrounded by life and good friends.

Kadar hated to admit it to himself, but he could see the effects of the torture all that time ago begin to affect him. Zachariah seemed to have a bit more of a limp to his gait. There was this perpetual stiffness to him, a soreness that never seemed to go away, despite the herbal remedies the doctors recommended. Kadar was beginning to get concerned, despite the face that smile never wavered.

Eventually, Altair left to do whatever he was going to do in Asia, and Zachariah grew solemn again. He spent hours talking with men in the village, half hidden and quiet, trading letters and words. It was one night, two or three weeks later that he sat him down at the table and stared him. He had learned so much under Zachariah's guidance.

"Kadar, there is something I fear you don't know."

Kadar looked at him curiously, listening to the three novices in the other room.

"There are rumors your brother is a traitor to the Order."

Kadar rose. "That is ridiculous. My brother watches over the Order more than that foul-mouthed, pig-headed idiot!"

Zachariah frowned. "Quiet. Sit down. There is something else you must hear."

He was reminded everyday why Zachariah had been such a valuable part of the Templar ranks. The man leaned in.

"There is a plot to kill Sef."

Kadar's eyes grew wide.

"And let it be known right now, if we don't protect that young man, we will never find favor here, again. I sent word to Altair several weeks ago."

"Are there any assassins we can trust?"

Zachariah stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The novices came in.

"Yes, sir?"

"I have all ready thought through what must happen," Zachariah said. "And you will be my eyes and body, Kadar."

Kadar nodded.

"They will kidnap Sef and bring him here. They will stage his death, then return and protect him. We will kill Abbas, and then we will restore Altair's son to power."

"How will we kill him?"

"A poisoned sticky bun."

"He is paranoid, sir," one of the assassins said. "He will never eat it."

Zachariah's lips curled up in the corner of his mouth. "I am the eyes and ears of many assassins here. I have served the most corrupt of men, and I have served the noblest of men. The paranoid trust me because I soothe their fears of uprising. Abbas knows of my work for Sibrand. He knows of my work for Robert. We are in a good position."

The three assassin novices were gathered close now, tentatively sitting to listen.

"I am the viper that crawls into the beds of babies and bites them in their sleep. He cannot outsmart the man who deals in betrayal."

Kadar's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "So all that time I caught you talking and…"

"Yes."

Kadar looked down. "That still doesn't explain how a poisoned…" he trailed off when Zachariah started chuckling, leaning back in his chair.

"I have lived a good life with you, Kadar. I am thirty-eight years young because of all you have given me. My past has been forgiven, and I have found family in those I used to hate. I will bite from the bun before him, and in so doing, take my own life with his."

"That's crazy!" Kadar said, rising.

They may have been old, but this was just ridiculous. There was no need for Zachariah to give his life. That was stupid. Sure, he was good at convincing, excellent at lying and deceiving when he wanted to be, and sure, Kadar had learned all of that, he had learned how to deal in the trade of betrayal, but Zachariah couldn't leave him yet. He still had a lot to learn. Sure, he knew the man's contacts—he was making his own name, now. Zachariah couldn't leave him yet. He still needed the man.

Zachariah was still smiling softly, and he reached out, grasping their hands together. "Kadar, I would not live much longer anyway. The torture from years now passed have started to wear away at me. I would rather die knowing you were able to keep this place going, than die in agony, slowly wasting away until there is nothing left. My leg hurts every morning, sometimes paralyzing me for an hour or two. You have seen the stiffness I have, the gradual worsening of my step. Allow me to die quicker than if I waited for Death to seek me out naturally."

"You-you can't!" Kadar hissed, pounding his fists on the table. "I need you to stay here."

"I have all ready made plans to eat with Abbas. You will accompany me. I know that you can continue on: you are strong."

"Z-Zachariah!"

He was standing now, his hands on the table as he stared back at Zachariah.

"You are strong, Kadar. You have guided me through life, and now it is time to repay you for everything you have done. If this is not done, Abbas will surely come for you."

Kadar was silent. The seconds dragged on in the tiny second room where they slept. The assassins fidgeted as the reality of what his friend had said sunk in. It hit him like a hammer, striking deep into his chest and causing an ache there. He covered his face with his hands. "Fine. When is the dinner?"

"In a week."

"You weren't going to let me know."

"I wasn't until I heard of Malik."

Kadar was quiet, saying nothing more as he went to bed. He found himself crying as he tried to sleep, and he let Zachariah pull him into a hug that night as they slept. He didn't want tomorrow to come. When he woke, he pulled himself out of bed and over to the books, working quietly for a few minutes before he looked in on his caretaker of many years, still crying softly. His eyes widened when he heard a soft groan, followed by a whimper, and watched his friend twist on his side, trying his best to curl up. He walked over slowly and sat down, placing his hand on his leg and rubbing slowly. He placed a red pillow between the man's legs for some comfort. Zachariah whimpered as he turned it into a massage.

"How have I not noticed this?"

It took several minutes before he could speak, and he didn't like the answer. "I-I hid it. You were always up and working in the mornings. One of us must earn the dough, yes?"

Kadar frowned, slowly working the pain from his leg. An hour later, he could move again. He helped his friend up, quiet as they shuffled into the small other room, and Kadar made them breakfast. He ate quietly, and once they were done, Zachariah rose. There was knock, and Kadar opened it to see a wide-eyed looking Sef covered by three assassins. He ushered him in, and Zachariah was waiting with his arms outstretched.

He would never forget the lavish funeral for Altair's son, or the destroyed face of the dummy in his place. They spent the nights of the next week eating together, and Sef, while confused, was grateful they had saved his life. When he asked what was going on, they told him the entire story, and they kept him carefully hidden inside the tiny house all week long. Malik was imprisoned shortly before they were to go, and when the dreaded day finally arrived, Kadar found himself staring at his caretaker as he walked around the kitchen.

"Come. Let us make the rolls. The poison is in the red pillow. I had the assassins bring it in from India."

"How long have you been planning this?" Kadar squawked.

"Killing Abbas?" He had all ready pulled out the ingredients and some coin for him to buy the fresh ones. "Not until a week or two ago. I've had the poison since forever, just in case I couldn't trust one of the assassins, or they decided I should be put back in torture."

Kadar took the coin and returned a few minutes later with the other ingredients. Zachariah had a small vial of clear poison sitting on next to the others. He set them down and helped him make the buns, and as they were baking, Zachariah sat with a small bowl and stirred the poison into the honey. He watched him set the buns in the honey after they pulled them out of the dome oven and let them soak. He settled beside his friend, holding his hand and tracing over the scars again.

"I'm going to miss you."

"I know," Zachariah whispered, "and I will always remember you in Heaven."

"Do you have to do this?"

"Yes. You will be good on your own."

Kadar wrapped him in a tight hug. "Please?"

"Kadar."

His friend wrapped his arms around him, holding him tightly. As they left, Sef pulled him in for a hug, looking at him with a sad gaze. "Goodbye, uncle."

He smiled softly, kissing his cheeks. "We will see each other again."

It was with a heavy heart Kadar carried the basket beside him, helping his friend up the hills. He heard the bells toll, and they trudged into the castle. Abbas was waiting for them as they entered, and he showed them around the castle. It was all ready visible, the change in regime. He stayed quiet, ignoring the conversation as he thought about what his friend was going to do. In all honesty, he didn't remember much of the dinner, either, save that the man and Zachariah sat there and ate the buns, laughing and jesting as he told him all of the dirty secrets he had heard. There were several other officials eating with them, and at the end, Kadar asked to see his brother. Abbas nodded, and he left the table, walking down into the dungeons to his brother's cell with the key keeper.

"Kadar?"

"Malik."

He stood there, and watched his brother draw close on his old bones. "You didn't come immediately."

Kadar smiled softly, the key keeper by his side. "I know."

Without another warning, he grabbed the keyman's head and jerked it back rough enough to snap his neck. He took the keys and unlocked the cell, holding out a hand for his brother.

"But I came in time."

He linked his fingers with Malik, forcing all thoughts of Zachariah from his mind as they walked. They walked past the guards at the entrance, replaced by two of the three before, and out of castle with little difficulty, back to the house. Malik's eyes widened when he saw Sef sitting there in the cozy little house, playing a gambling game with the third assassin who helped them.

"Malik!"

"S-Sef?"

And when they hugged, Kadar broke down crying, drawing his knees to his chest and sobbing. He knew—he felt—that Zachariah was dead. And so was Abbas. And he had lost his best friend of so many, many years. He _knew_ Zachariah was dead. He could _feel _the hole in his heart as he twined his fingers in his hair, pulling as he sobbed, rocking on his toes in his squatting position. He cried harder when he felt Malik pull him close. He was not an assassin. Death was not something he could handle well. He sobbed into his brother's arms, crying himself to sleep.

The next morning, he didn't want to get up. He felt so empty. It was as if part of himself had died with Zachariah, and left him dry and empty, and he didn't want to move—he didn't want to get up ever again. That man had taught him so much. They had bonded so closely through the struggles of faith and friendship. Kadar _loved_ the man. He curled into a ball, only to find Malik by his side, and he found himself crying again, quietly this time.

"Sef told me what happened. As we speak, Altair returns and fights the rest of the traitors. It has been a week since you moved, Kadar."

"He's too late," Kadar choked. "He's dead."

When Altair came to check on them, he was sitting in the pillows, silent, the occasional tear falling down his cheek. He heard him and his brother speak, but didn't understand what they were saying. It was all a blur until the funeral, and Kadar had never cried so hard in all his life, his hands fisted in his brother's robes as they burned the body of his best friend. He stood there afterward, holding the ashes and trying to dump them into the waters of Masyaf, a tradition for the assassins who proved their loyalty and unwavering support for the Brotherhood. He could feel the soft breeze tug at his skin as he stood there, holding the small container of ashes, and he felt Malik wrap his arm around his shoulder as he fought of tears. Perhaps it was a good thing he wasn't an assassin.

"You are such a novice," Malik whispered, pressing his nose against his ear to nuzzle it.

"Wh-what?"

"Look at you. Zachariah will never forgive you if you don't carry on his legacy and teach Sef how to become just like him."

"W-what?"

"He told his father that he wishes to remain under your guidance, since you have become just like your friend. He wishes to remain dead. The Al-Sayfs live a long time, and Sef has decided to follow in your footsteps, to become a ghost."

Kadar looked at the box.

"He gave his life to protect you. Let him rest in peace with his brothers."

His lips twitched in mimicry of a smile, and he breathed deep.

"When you leave these shores, leave your tears here."

Kadar paused a few seconds, and then, without a second thought, scattered the ashes into the lake, watching the flaming arrows soar across the sky to light huge fires surrounding the water—a funeral of high honor. He turned back to see Altair and Maria, and their two kids, waiting by the entrance to get back in. As he and his brother walked back into the castle while the other assassins said due goodbyes, Kadar realized he felt, for the first time in several weeks, at peace with himself. His tears were dried, and another breeze blew as he felt a smile tug at his lips. He offered out a hand to Sef, and they walked up to the roof top together to watch the fires burn. He felt utterly okay now. He knew that no more tears were coming, and he could take on Zachariah's legacy.

That must have been Zachariah's last gift.

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><p><strong>I hope you guys enjoy. I was rooting through my stuff, and this poor thing was dithering away to nothing. :3 Lemme know what you think. I would love to hear.<strong>


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